


Slowly, and then All at Once

by Nejinee



Category: due South
Genre: Background Case, Feelings Realization, First Time, Fraser is very patient, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, cranky ray
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nejinee/pseuds/Nejinee
Summary: The problem, Ray thought, was that Fraser wasn’t good with social cues.While solving cases, both Ray and Fraser come to some conclusions.
Relationships: Benton Fraser/Ray Kowalski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

“Ray,” Fraser said in that soft voice he used when placating kids. “Everything will be fine. You haven’t missed anything. Look, we’re already here.”

“Goddamnit, Fraser, I’m so dumb!” Ray rolled the GTO into a parking spot and pulled the hand brake sharply, making the gearbox squeal unhappily. Dief whined loudly in the back seat. “God! Such an important case and I fuckin’ _sleep in_! We don’t even have time to go over your testimony.”

“I’m prepared,” Fraser said calmly, like always.

They exited the car and Ray slammed his door with force. He walked around to chivvy Fraser across the street. “Yeah, I dunno, Frase,” he huffed, watching the traffic, daring anyone to run them over. “This judge, McCree, you know, he don’t like me much, not after that time I punched that defense attorney. No, he did not like that. I remember my hand hurting bad that time. Defense attorneys, they got those extra sets a teeth, you know? Like sharks.” He pushed at his upper lip, showing off his incisors. Fraser smiled.

“You good, though?” Ray asked, rushing up the steps beside Fraser. “I mean, you gonna be okay up there on the stand?” He rubbed his hand over his hair. It was a complete mess atop his head, he could feel it. He hadn’t had time to comb the gel, just dragged his fingers through the strands, hoping it wouldn’t clump too badly.

“I’ll be fine, Ray,” Fraser said, holding the door open for a pair of middle-aged women. He waved Ray inside. Ray felt itchy, his jacket heavy on his shoulders. His holster was tugging at his shirt. No guns today, though. Not in court, so why he was even wearing the damn thing was beyond him. Maybe it was like one of those, what do you call ‘em, security blankets. Made Ray feel secure.

The courthouse was as busy as ever. Ray had been here so many times, if you gave him a map, he could label all the men’s washrooms on every floor. “Fraser, we gotta get this one right, you know? We got ‘em this far what with the arrest, the motions, indictments, bla-blah, you know the drill. Now it’s that final charge, get ‘em pinned to the ground with your stellar witness testimony and that asshole Pomelo goes down for good.” They started up the wide marble steps to the second floor. “It’s good when we get it right. I load the gun, you fire.” A couple people looked up as they passed, Ray’s hands waving while he talked. “I mean, I rack ‘em, you whack ‘em. I set ‘em up, you knock ‘em down.”

“I understand,” Fraser said, walking alongside Ray in long, sure strides. He cut quite the figure in his brown uniform, the one the Lieutenant said read better in court because Fraser looked less like a kid’s doll and more like a contributing member of society.

When they reached the courtroom, Ray turned on his heel and paced in a tight stripe along the hallway. “God, I’m nervous, Fraser.” People wove around him as he paced.

“I can see that,” Fraser murmured. “You’re not testifying, so don’t worry, Ray. Pomelo’s not going to get away with this.”

“Yeah, I hope not, but last time, we lost the whole case on a stupid technicality. Remember when Fancini got out on a million dollar bail and fled anyway? We’re _still_ lookin’ for that bastard, conviction or no.” He chewed on his thumbnail, spinning on his heel and turning away again.

“Ray, please,” Fraser said slowly. “Everything will be fine. You have nothing to worry about. Just sit with Diefenbaker, keep him quiet and keep your head down.” He glanced behind him. “Also, might I suggest we go inside the courtroom? The judge will be arriving momentarily.”

“Ah, yeah, shit, right,” and Ray spun back towards Fraser and followed him through the wide wooden doors. “I gotta listen to you more. You’re always right, Frase.”

“Uh-huh,” Fraser said with a slight curl to his lips. “Please remember that next time we’re caught between a rock and a hard place.”

“Nah, where’s the fun in that?” Ray grinned.

* * *

It was long gone three PM and they’d spent the whole day watching the case unfold to the very bitter end.

“You were _awesome_ , Fraser!” Ray whooped and clapped Fraser on the back as they exited the courthouse. “ _Bang_ on, like always. I swear if we could teach what you do to all our witnesses, we’d be batting three-fifty.”

“I didn’t do anything special, I merely explained the circumstances, Ray,” Fraser walked beside him down the stone stairs as they headed for the GTO.

“Nah, Fraser, you do it different,” Ray smiled wide, “you do that Mountie thing, with the big words and the _yes ma’am_ s, and the baby blue eyes, and the politeness schtick. Works every time. Chicago P.D.s secret weapon!”

Fraser made a face of amusement. “Baby blue?–”

Ray jumped down the last few steps and onto the sidewalk. “Ah, it’s so good to see us land something good for once, you know? I get tired of bein’ the loser all the time. Losing sucks when it goes on for too long. I needed this win. We did.”

Fraser smiled and followed Ray across the street. Dief followed at a trot, already growling about dinner. When they reached the car, Fraser rested an arm on the cool metal roof, looking over at Ray. “You deserve it. You always do an excellent job, Ray, and it shows.”

Ray waved at him, unlocking the driver’s door and swinging himself into the car. Fraser seemed to hesitate a moment longer, letting Diefenbaker in first, then followed, settling into his usual spot beside Ray.

“I know you don’t believe it when I say this, and I say it fairly often. If you need me to reiterate it, I certainly can–”

“Fraser, what on earth are you talking about?” Ray said. He twisted in his seat, elbow resting on the steering wheel.

“You don’t like it when I remind you how excellent of a detective you are,” Fraser said, his eyes clear, staring right back at Ray. “You have, once again, implied that you have more losses than victories, but I contest that. _Vehemently._ In fact, the number of wins versus losses vis-a-vis arrests and convictions are very high.”

“Ah, Fraser, c’mon,” Ray turned back to face forward and started up the car. He rolled down his window, arm working the crank with practiced ease. “Don’t start this.”

“No, I insist,” Fraser said, “you are criminally undervaluing yourself. You are an excellent detective, a truly talented negotiator–your threats of bodily assault on suspects notwithstanding–and I wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Fraser,” Ray sighed as he pulled them into traffic. He liked to keep his hands and eyes busy whenever Fraser got like this. He could pretend he was focusing, not just avoiding the words being thrown at him. “I was just saying we had a good day today. My God, what do you want from me?”

“I want you to acknowledge that yes, sometimes we have cases that fall through due to extraneous, uncontrollable circumstances, but also that none of these cases would be moving at all if it weren’t for your excellent investigative abilities.”

Ray shook his head.

“Furthermore–” Fraser went on.

“Oh, here we go,” Ray sighed.

“ _Furthermore_ , you cannot blame yourself for any of the previous errors made by others.”

Ray was silent. He pushed on the brakes as the car rolled to a stop under the red light.

“Also,” Fraser said louder, making Ray want to bash his own brains in, “I may have testified as a witness today, but without your quick thinking and your uncanny ability to see the connecting lines between the suspects on this case, if you hadn’t known to go look up Michael Pomelo’s residence, I wouldn’t have been witness at all to the drug bust and ensuing altercation. So really, Ray, this win today, my witness testimony on seeing the suspect with the drugs, with the money, with the knife?” He turned to look at Ray, “None of it would have happened without you.”

Ray made a face and hit the accelerator. Fraser was shunted back in his seat.

“That’s not the point,” Ray muttered, smacking his palm against the steering wheel. “You’re missing it, Fraser. You’re misresentin’ my words.”

“Mis _rep_ resenting,” Fraser said.

“Whatever,” Ray said sharply, “don't do that. You know my words get all jumbled, don’t correct me.”

“My apologies.”

“Yeah, always your apologies, your overstepping, all that.”

“Ray–”

“Fraser just–God–just be quiet. You’re all in my brain. It’s busy inside there already.” He looked over and jabbed his finger at Fraser’s face. “Do _not_ apologize.”

Fraser looked at him, blinked, then nodded.

They drove a couple more blocks in silence before Ray couldn’t hold it much longer. He was shit with awkward silences. “I’m starving.”

“As am I,” Fraser murmured, looking out the window.

Ray glanced at Fraser, taking in his sharp jaw line, his gently coiffed hair. He’d dressed his best and did a bang-up job in there on behalf of Ray and the C.P. D. Ray rolled his eyes.

“Dinner’s on me, then.”

“Oh, you don’t have to–”

“ _What did I say_ , Fraser? What did I _just_ say?”

“Dinner’s on you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

* * *

Fraser made it very difficult for Ray to avoid him, or not look at him.

Maybe their partnership _had_ run its course, because Ray was going to _lose_ it if Fraser didn’t stop getting into his line of sight with that querying face of his; the one with the furrowed brows and curious questions.

“Have I done something, Ray?” he said as Ray piled up more folders onto the already sky-high pile on his desk. Fraser looked around the pile. “Ray?”

“What!” Ray cried out and the whole stack wobbled.

He couldn’t look Fraser in the eye.

Fraser, however, was a nut case about eye contact. He was bent over, head sideways, trying to get Ray to look at him. He’d been doing it all damn day.

Ray glanced up. Shit. He’d been thinking of that face every time he jacked off this week. What had started as just a sort of throwaway idea was fast becoming an intriguing experiment in Ray’s sexuality. So what if he'd been thinking about the pretty weather girl on TV, hand on dick, then somehow wondered if Fraser liked girls like her. Then all of a sudden, Ray was thinking about _Fraser_ having sex with the weather girl and then wondering what Fraser's cock looked like, what his ass would feel like–and _well_. Now he was uncomfortable making eye contact with the Mountie for fear of Canadians having the magical ability to read dirty minds.

He should have realized all of this sooner, especially after that harrowing chase a few weeks back, when those gunmen had been shooting at him and Fraser and they’d had to duck into a basement stairwell before figuring a way out of that mess. He’d been all squished up against Fraser, heart pounding, gun at the ready and then he’d realized he was getting hard in his pants. Timing was _everything_. Adrenaline, Ray learned after the fact, was a key contributor to _sudden-onset-boneritis_ , a condition he was all too familiar with nowadays.

He couldn’t be dreaming of licking Fraser top-to-tail and then also spending twelve hours each day with him! He had enough problems as it was! Lusting after a goddamn Mountie _with a penis_ was a little much in this economy.

“You’re behaving oddly,” Fraser said, sitting back down. He took his hat off.

Fraser had nice hair. It looked very thick, very soft; not like Ray’s hair which was thin and wispy and flat. It _looked_ like Fraser used some kind of product in his hair, but Ray knew better. Fraser didn’t put anything on or in his body that wasn’t _au naturale_. “I’m fine,” Ray sighed and sat back. “I’m just tired.”

“Then you need time off,” Fraser murmured. “Taking a vacation isn’t a bad idea, Ray.”

“Nah, but I got all this,” Ray waved at the work all over his desk. “Who’s gonna cover my cases?”

“Well, the other detectives, I imagine,” Fraser said, like it was that easy.

Ray scowled, “No, you ever seen Dewey’s handwriting? Fraser, last time he covered an interview for me I needed to commune with the undead to figure out his hiero–hero–”

“Hieroglyphics?”

“–his chicken scratch. It’s like his pens puke their guts out then die on the paper because they can’t do whatever devilry is needed to get his words out. So, no, I can’t trust anyone with my cases.”

“You know, Ray,” Fraser said in that _voice_ , the one he used to educate gunmen on proper weapons-etiquette, “that may be more a sign of a control problem, a trust issue; something worth looking into, perhaps.”

“Oh, headline news!” Ray said, spreading his hands out, imagining the words. “Vecchio don’t trust nobody because everybody is shit. Good to know, Fraser. You’re on the ball, pal.”

Fraser pouted. He fuckin’ _pouted_ like Ray had cut him off too early and now he couldn’t soapbox his way out of this. “You can learn to trust people, Ray,” he said. “I do all the time.”

“No, Fraser, see, no,” Ray sat up and scooched his chair closer to the corner of his desk so he could look Fraser in the eye. “You trust too many people, too easily. That’s how you get yourself killed.”

“I’m not dead,” Fraser blinked back. “Trusting someone has yet to get me killed.”

“That’s ‘cos it only has to happen _once_ ,” Ray said, raising his brows and holding up an index finger.

Fraser frowned, but let it go.

* * *

The problem, Ray thought, was that Fraser wasn’t good with social cues.

He’d butt in when he shouldn’t and make observations about a perp’s shoes and how new they looked in contrast to the perp’s story about having lost all their earnings down at the track.

Fraser also completely missed the terrible commentary the Ice Queen kept making about his uniform and how good the fit was. Ray always watched her like a hawk because a woman that self-centered had no business snuffling around Fraser’s collar.

And more often than not, Fraser would get in Ray’s personal space, something that used to just be annoying, but was fast becoming frustrating in whole new ways.

Like right now. It was spitting rain, it was cold, it was the middle of the night, and they were at a new crime scene, and Fraser was bein’ weird again.

“How do you know that?” Ray cried, leaning over some fabric Fraser was crouched beside. “Fraser it rained all night so there’s no damn evidence to find on the victim’s body’s and now you’re telling me it’s important I know this scarf is silk? You just found that on the ground! Silk or not is irrelevant.”

Fraser picked up the soft blue fabric and sniffed it. Ray gagged. A couple uniformed officers walked by, giving them _looks_.

“Fraser,” Ray crouched down properly, “for the love of God.”

“Look, Ray,” Fraser said and held up the fabric. It was dark. Ray couldn’t say much about it except maybe it was a scarf or maybe it was a fancy napkin.

“It’s not rayon, or polyester. This is silk. The victim worked as a seamstress, a high-end one, did she not?”

Ray frowned, “Maybe, so?”

“Well, she’d know her fabrics and I’ll bet you she sewed this herself.”

Ray rolled his eyes. They were crouched on the concrete of the waterfront surrounded by cops and flashing lights. This wasn’t the place for Fraser to go all wild-mountain-man weirdo.

“So?”

“Her clothing, Ray, it’s high-end. She must have taken pride in her fashion, probably liked the best of the best. If we source the silk’s origins, maybe that will help us find her killer.”

“How do you even know that it’s silk?Why would that matter?” Ray exhaled.

“Perhaps it won’t in the end,” Fraser said, “You see, silk has a colder quality to it. If one were to touch it to their skin, it would feel colder than any other fabric. Here.”

Fraser pressed the fabric to Ray’s cheek. Ray flinched back.

“Oh, perhaps here?” Fraser then pressed it against Ray’s neck, misreading Ray’s reaction as surprise and not repressed interest.

“Fraser.” God, he was so close Ray could count his eyelashes. “Fraser, no.”

“Or here?” Fraser frowned and pressed the fabric to Ray’s ear and then down his jaw. “Can you feel the difference?”

Ray felt shivers all over. “Fraser.”

And back on his cheek.

“Fraser, _stop,_ ” Ray sighed, feeling the tingles climbing up his neck. God, it felt too weird, and _so_ good, and _this was not the time or place._

They looked at one another. Fraser pulled his hand back. Ray smiled.

“C’mon, pal. Enough crawling around in the wet. We’ve got a murder to solve. Pitter patter.”

* * *

Ray has a way about him that draws Fraser in. It’s something that the Mountie had been trying to distill down, attempting to understand, since the first time they’d met.

This very day, for example, Ray was showing off his interrogation skills, while Fraser played the role of the amiable good cop to his bad.

“You think looking at him’s, gonna net you something?” Ray said, banging his hand on the metal table between him and the man he was interrogating. “You think the Mountie with the nice face is gonna step in and stop me from cracking your head into this table? You sure you wanna bet on that?”

_Nice face?_

The man, Elijah Melkin, was pale but determined. “That’s police brutality. You lay a finger on me and your ass is dead.”

“Police brutality?” Ray barked, turning and pacing across the small interrogation room. “No, you know what’s brutal? You know what’s _real_ brutality? The dead body of Marsha Levine left to float out on the water. You think her stabbing ain’t brutal? You think that whoever killed her was kind to her, or gave a damn? You think six knife wounds, one to the neck, was what she deserved? No, Elijah, nuh-uh. It’s _my_ job to suss this out and you, my friend, my buddy, you are either standing in the way of a culprit who needs to be brought in, or you’re culpable for murder yourself. You go down for her death, or the minor–but pretty bad–charge for aiding and abetting a _murderer._ You could be the accomplice. What’s it gonna be?”

Fraser tried to hide his smile. Ray was very good. He was bargaining.

Melkin was sweating profusely. “I didn’t kill her! I barely knew her, I swear! She was like, a friend of my roommate’s! I–I didn’t murder _anyone!”_

Ray could get suspects to talk before their lawyers arrived. Ray knew that time was of the essence, so he would just _lean into_ them, taunt them with accusations and threats and alternatives, he always left a spot for them to weasel out from. Fraser had found Ray’s methods questionable at first (he himself choosing to just ask the obvious questions and letting the suspects speak as they felt fit) but after seeing the way Ray could fool people, could read into their responses, know how to pressure and unsettle them, Fraser had to admit it: Ray was excellent at this.

There was a reason Welsh liked to throw him in _after_ Detectives Huey and Dewey did their part. Ray was the last bullet in the barrel before culprits met with counsel, or before the feds showed up. Ray was the lion they let loose when the prey thought they’d escaped. Ray was big trouble.

He was very impressive, pacing like always, giving off an air of ragged tension. His white-t-shirt was snug, his gun holster tight. Fraser knew Ray made sure the perps always saw his weapon. They also saw his rangy physique, his clenched fists and the quick-fire light in his eyes when he lured them into his trap, right before he nailed them right between the eyes.

“Oh yeah?” Ray said, his spiked-up blonde hair glowing with the light from the small frosted window in the wall. He looked to be on fire. “Who’s your roommate, Elijah? You never mentioned a roommate.”

Fraser pressed his palm to his mouth. He was leaning against the wall, out of Ray’s way. Melkin seemed to pale further. “I–I never said I didn’t have–”

“No, no,” Ray wagged a finger and grinned, “You said–what was it, oh, man–Fraser, you want to remind me what he said when we got to his home?”

“Certainly,” Fraser stood up and folded his hands behind his back. “Mr. Melkin, upon our arriving at your place of residence, you told us you lived alone, which is why there was nobody to answer the phone when we called earlier, because you were out.

“That’s not the reason–” Melkin swallowed audibly.

Ray pressed both hands to the metal table and leaned in. “I think you better spill the beans,” he hissed. “Because you don’t got what we know, Elijah. And we know _a lot._ ”

Fraser smiled. Ray was _good._

* * *

Melkin folded like a house of cardsas Ray liked to say.

“Excellent work, detective,” Welsh said four hours later after Ray handed in the report Fraser had typed up for him. Welsh looked it over, eyes tracking the words in a way only a seasoned skimmer could. “Constable, you too.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fraser nodded.

“These guys, man, Lieutenant,” Ray said, twirling his hand near his head. “They’re bastards. All of ‘em. The things they do? Jeez. Disgusting.”

Welsh sighed and dropped the folder onto his desk. “Well, that’s why we’re here. To bring ‘em in and hold ‘em accountable. Ain’t that right?”

Ray stood beside Fraser, thumbs now hooked into his jeans. Fraser tried to not stare, but Ray always looked so settled, so confident in his bones after he closed a case. Fraser probably wasn’t the go-to for such commentary, but he thought Ray exuded sex appeal. Very distracting sex appeal.

“You boys get tomorrow off, how ‘bout that?” Welsh said, leaning back in his creaky chair. “Take a nap or two. Fucking shave, Vecchio.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Ray exhaled and scratched at the faint stubble around his jaw. Fraser had grown fond of the stubble. “We’re going, going.”

“You’re maxing out on overtime, detective!” Welsh said loudly as Ray waved Fraser out the door. “I don’t want to see your faces in here for another twenty-four hours!”

* * *

“Amazing work, Ray,” Fraser said, walking a couple feet behind the detective.

He watched as Ray strode down the street to his apartment building. Fraser liked to watch when Ray got like this, brimming with adrenaline and pride.

Ray flailed his arms skyward. The moon was out and cast gentle shadows down the sidewalk.

“You and me, Fraser,” Ray said, “we’re the best team, you know that?” He spun on his heel and continued walking backwards, smiling at Fraser. He looked like an excited child, happy to be let off from a long day at school.

“Indeed we are,” Fraser murmured.

“Hey, can I try–?” Ray came up to him and tapped the brim of Fraser’s hat.

Fraser blinked, “Can you what?”

“Can I try on the hat?” Ray said with a wide grin. “Just for a bit. Or is it illegal or some shit? Tell me it ain’t illegal. I wanna wear the hat, Frase. C’mon.”

Fraser frowned, still walking while Ray backed away. “A mounted policeman is not to treat the uniform with less respect than it deserves, Ray. Also, it is _my_ hat.”

“Aw, c’mon, Fraser,” Ray said with that whine that he used to get Elaine to pick up an extra coffee for him.

Fraser looked around the quiet street and sighed. “Oh, very well.” He pulled his hat off, immediately smoothing back his hair. He supposed the Canadian government couldn’t see him from here. He handed it to Ray, who grinned and immediately fitted it atop his own blond head.

“Hah! Lookit me, Frase! I’m a Mountie! I got ten horses, and a stick up my ass!” He mimed tooting a horn, or a trumpet.

“Technically–” Fraser began, but stopped himself. _Ray_ was wearing his hat. _His hat._ It was ridiculous because there was no matching uniform to go with it, but also: Ray looked good in it.

“This thing’s roomy,” Ray patted the top of the hat, then tipped the brim. “Howdy.”

“It’s not a cowboy hat,” Fraser sighed. He glanced up. “Also, we’re here.” Ray’s apartment building loomed overhead.

“Awesome,” Ray smiled, winked and then made a mad dash for the apartment building.

“Ray? _Ray!”_ Fraser grunted and ran after him. “Ray, don’t be–”

He jogged after the detective. “Pardon me, ma’am,” he nodded at a woman and her daughter exiting the building. He caught the door and ran over to the elevator, only just slipping in before the doors creaked and whined shut.

Ray was guffawing like an idiot. The elevator was old and very small, so they were facing one another, almost chest-to-chest.

“You love this hat, don’t you?” Ray smirked.“It’s like your baby, or somethin’. You gotta have an eye on it at all times.”

“No, I believe Diefenbaker is more akin to any baby I will ever have. Aside from you and your childish behaviour, of course,” Fraser rolled his eyes. He glanced at the keypad to ensure they were heading to the correct floor.

When he turned back, Ray was watching him. “Your baby, huh?”

Fraser smiled. “Something like that.”

Ray took the hat off and carefully placed it atop Fraser’s head. Fraser watched as he straightened the brim. Ray had very grey eyes, misty and clouded sometimes but always piercingly attentive.

Fraser licked at his bottom lip, unsure of what to make of the energy in the elevator.

Ray’s eyes flicked down to his tongue. “ _I’m_ your baby.”

“Well–” Fraser cleared his throat, now hearing his own words repeated back to him. He scratched at his eyebrow. “–I mean–”

The elevator dinged and Ray pushed at Fraser’s chest. “Baby says out. Chinese’ll be here soon. I’m starving.”

Fraser backed out of the elevator and followed Ray down the dimly-lit hall. Oh _dear_. Fraser was going to regret his wording, he was certain of it.

—


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh jeez,” Ray had to breath through the disgust.

“Face the wall, Ray,” Fraser murmured, going around the doc’s autopsy table.

Ray did as he was told and pressed his forehead to the very cold tile. “God, I hate the morgue,” he exhaled through his teeth.

“Hm,” Fraser hummed from somewhere behind him. “Doctor, can you explain the edges of this wound? It appears to be burned more on one side than the other.”

“Ah,” Mort said loudly, “Always you with the keen eyes, constable.”

Ray swallowed, “What’s happening?”

“Chest wound,” Fraser said. “It’s about as wide as a fist, Ray.”

Ray gagged.

“Correct,” Mort said, “There is indeed burned edges here and here, but I have not yet determined what kind of object can create such a unique shape and at such a size.”

“Mm,” Ray could just see in his mind’s eye the way Fraser would be nodding.

“Fraser,” Ray said, folding his arms to ward off the chill. “We came here to look at the legs, remember? Disgusting dead legs.”

“Ah, yes.”

Ray heard fabric rustling. “Oh,” Mort said. “I see why you came. Yes, there is indeed pooling of blood in the anterior of both legs, thighs and calves. Fascinating. This is indeed an interesting death, gentlemen.”

“We thought, you see,” Fraser said, “that the positioning of the body was misleading.”

“How so?” Mort asked.

“We don’t got time to jabber,” Ray cut in. “I can’t stand this place, Fraser. Can you just get your look in and can we go?”

“Ah, of course,” Fraser answered.

“In a rush,” Mort said. It was a statement.

“Always,” Fraser said with a smile, Ray could feel it. “Come on, Ray. Let’s leave the fine doctor to his work. Thank you, Mort.”

“Just doing my job,” Mort said as Ray felt two large, warm hands at his back. Now was not the time to appreciate the sensation. Fraser was here to let him know they could leave, not feel him up.

“God, finally,” and Ray rushed for the morgue’s double doors and flung himself through them. “I hate it, I hate, I hate it,” he shook his hands out and shuddered. Even the glimpse of the fabric-covered bodies on tables was enough to make him faint. "Baby don't like that shit."

“We’re out now,” Fraser murmured as they walked. He looked over at Ray. “And your suspicion was right, Ray.”

“Sometimes,” Ray wiped a hand over his face, feeling the cold sweat on his skin. God, he could still smell the disinfectant. “So the backs of the legs were all blue ’n’ purplish? But not the back, the spine?”

“Blood had definitely pooled in them, yes,” Fraser nodded. “Very strange considering his body was found on his back in his garage.”

“Which means when he died, he was sitting, somehow,” Ray chewed at his lip as he walked through the next set of double doors, Fraser holding them open. “Blood needs time to settle like that. Hours and hours. But the wife said she found him on the floor.” He turned to Fraser. “Did you see any ropes or anything up in the ceiling?”

Fraser shook his head. He watched Ray, “You think he killed himself?”

“Dunno,” Ray chewed on his lip. They opted for the stairs, Ray taking them two at a time. “It’s weird. He got a hole blown through his chest and didn’t bleed out much on the garage floor but he was _covered_ in blood, his clothes all soaked in it. I dunno, I dunno.”

“Very odd,” Fraser murmured. “Especially with no evidence of bone fragments on the floor.”

By the time they made it back to his messy desk, Ray’s mind was abuzz with a million possibilities. He slumped into his chair, then immediately stood up again. “Stella?” His ex-wife was coming out of Welsh’s office. “Stella!”

She looked up, hesitated, then walked towards them.

“Ray,” she looked at Fraser and nodded, eyes taking in the uniform. “Constable.”

“D.A. Kowalski, hello,” Fraser took off his hat like the real gentleman he was. Ray wondered if that worked with women.

“What you doin’ here?” Ray scratched at his eyebrow, “You wanna get lunch? I got time.”

Stella eyed him warily, “No, thank you,” she said, “I’m actually due back in court.” She turned to leave.

“Aw, c’mon, Stel,” Ray bounded after her. “Saladino’s, right round the corner from the courthouse. They got the _best_ pastrami on rye. On me.”

He followed her down the hall to the elevator, weaving around other precinct workers. She was wearing a greeny-beige, short pencil skirt that matched her blazer, and cream-coloured pumps. God, her _legs._ She turned and sighed “Ray.” She said his name in that tone he was all too familiar with: the one where she was putting her foot down because he was pushing too hard.

“Okay,” he stepped back, head dipping. Growth, this was growth. “Sorry. I know, I know.”

She watched him for a moment, almost surprised, and her eyes flicked past his right shoulder.”I’m sure you’ve got other things to do,” she smiled gently and grabbed his elbow to squeeze it. It was a far cry from the old days when she’d kiss him good-bye, but it was better than the recent-old days where she’d stomp on his foot. “I’ll see you round, okay?” she murmured, and gave him a small wave before getting into the packed elevator.

He watched her go, chewing his lip, hands on his hips, then turned back down the hallway. Fraser was standing at the end, hat still in his hands. Ray rounded the corner and went back to his desk.

“Can you be _more_ desperate?” Dewey murmured from his own desk.

Ray’s head jerked up.“Hey, that’s my wife,” he said automatically.

“Ex-wife,” Dewey intoned drily, flipping through some magazine. His eyes flicked up to look at Ray, then Fraser. “You make a scene every time, Vecchio.”

“Yeah?” Ray advanced on him, “You tell me how it feels next time your heart walks out the door.”

Dewey made an ‘alright-whatever-man’ face and swiveled his chair round so he didn’t have to look at Ray.

He felt Fraser’s fingers on his elbow, pulling him back. “Ray, perhaps best to focus on the murder investigation?”

“Yeah, fine,” Ray shook him off and slid mopily into his chair. He scrubbed both hands through his hair. Stella was on his mind now. God, she was still so beautiful, still so infuriating–

But he needed to get his mind off her, off that problem he couldn’t fix. He’d lost that war years ago, the day he’d accepted the separation and then eventually signed the divorce papers. Ugh, worst memory ever.

“I’m hungry,” he grumbled.

“Well, there’s something we _can_ rectify,” Fraser murmured.

* * *

Fraser watched Ray order his usual Ruben and a large coffee. Ray was unsettled, as he always was after seeing Stella Kowalski.

Fraser couldn’t put into words how obvious it was that Ray suffered every time he bumped into his ex-wife. Ray certainly didn’t try to cover up or hide his feelings. That was Ray all over: his emotions and thoughts all out in the open, with no care for self-preservation. Everyone on the force saw it, knew about it. Ray would talk to himself all the time and on many occasions, Fraser had caught him running through his latest interaction with Stella, word-for word, like he could go back and fix the conversation, have a redo. If Fraser heard it all, the other detectives must have too, because none of them found it even slightly weird to watch Ray perk up and follow her around the station like a lost puppy. Words like _sad_ and _sucker_ got whispered sometimes. The guys would mock Ray, poke fun at his perceived weakness for the D.A., but Fraser thought what Ray expressed was something kinder, an example of Ray’s immense loyalty and fondness for those he loved. He had so few people to love that it made sense that he’d throw all his proverbial eggs into one basket and never let go.

Fraser admired it. There was something so very free about Ray’s truth, the way he could speak his mind so clearly, so assuredly. That’s not all Ray was, of course. Fraser had been privy to a few broken moments of self-despair, the sort that only Ray could fabricate about himself. He was very free with his opinion on everything aside from his own self-worth. Fraser was determined to work on that.

“Hey, you want anything?” Ray said, coming over, sandwich and drink in hand.

Fraser pulled out a paper-wrapped sandwich from his coat pocket.

Ray made a face, “Fraser, no. Please, God, where did you find that? How long’s that been in there? Did you pick it up from the floor? Did crazy Maggie make it for you? She don’t smell right.”

“I made it this morning, Ray.”

He made a face. “No, gross, disgusting. Wet sandwich bread, _blegh_. Here, take five bucks and get a real goddamn sandwich for once. I’ll be over there.” And he pushed past, over to his preferred window seat. Diefenbaker followed him, tail wagging. Fraser looked down at the five dollar bill in his hand and smiled.

When he made it back to Ray, the detective was sporting full chipmunk cheeks.

“G’off!” he elbowed Diefenbaker.

“Dief, no,” Fraser nudged the wolf, who just gave him an affronted whine. “ _No,_ ” Fraser raised both eyebrows. “You selfish animal.”

Ray watched Fraser unwrap his new sub sandwich. “That’s better,” he said after a big swallow. “Fraser, you can’t eat shit food. It’s comin’ on winter. You gotta fatten up.”

Fraser smiled, “You know, most animals in the Arctic spend months building up a good layer of–”

“Please, God, no,” Ray whined, head thrown back. “No more fat seal analogies! Baby says no!”

Fraser was amused, always happy to hear Ray complain about his anecdotes. It always distracted him. Ray eyed him, squinting, then bit into his sandwich with gusto. They sat together in amiable silence. It was one of Fraser’s favourite past times, just enjoying Ray’s company.

“So,” Ray finally said, crumpling up the sandwich wrapper and chewing up his last bite. “Gunshot through the chest?”

Fraser’s eyebrows pinched together. “Hm, I don’t think so. The wound was uniquely mystifying. I’ve never seen a gunshot wound like that.”

“Plus, we barely found any gunshot residue,” Ray added. He watched Fraser finish up his sub. “The lab reports were funky. Not enough residue, none on his hands, and where’s the gun? And why was the blood under the body so thin, they asked. I dunno.”

“And it was definitely his blood?”

“Yeah,” Ray cupped his coffee and stared down into it.

“Hmm,” Fraser chewed slowly. “A conundrum, Ray.”

“My favorite kinda drum,” Ray smirked and lifted his coffee up to take a sip.

* * *

“Hey, look at this,” Ray pushed a paper across his desk toward Fraser, who took it wordlessly. “Victim, Hibbert, it says here he was working the day he was found, or supposed to be.”

“This is a family calendar?” Fraser frowned at it.

“Yeah, collected as evidence,” Ray sat back and drummed his pen against the desktop. “He worked a rotating schedule so they probably had to write it down every week.”

“Huh,” Fraser flipped over the calendar. “So it seems.” He looked at Ray. “And you think he _went_ to work?”

“We’ll have to find out, won’t we?” Ray shuffled through the box of evidence found and collected at the crime scene. “What’d the wife say? He worked at a mill? Like a flour mill?”

“A steel mill,” Fraser murmured as Ray pulled out the dead man’s wallet, thankfully not covered in blood. 

Inside, he found a thin, worn business card. “Jason Hibbert, Machine Operator, Chicago Steel and Coil.” He flipped it so Fraser could read it.

Fraser smiled, “Well, that’s something to look into.”

* * *

They wandered through Chicago Steel and Coil’s massive front doors. Ray flashed his badge and asked to talk to the boss. The receptionist had them wait a while, as she had to go find the guy herself. Fraser did his nosy-parkering thing, wandering around the entrance area, taking it all in.

“Mike Manuel,” the man who approached them said, hand extended. “How can I help you gents?”

“Jason Hibbert,” Ray said, “He work here?”

Mike cleared his throat, “Yes, he does, did.”

“So you heard then?” Ray asked, watching the man carefully.

“I–uh,” Mike waved them away from the front desk. “Let’s go through here. It’s lunchtime, don’t want to bother Nancy with this stuff.”

Ray made eye contact with Fraser, who simply nodded and followed Mike. 

“Katelynn phoned,” Mike said, taking off his worn baseball cap. He rubbed a meaty hand over his moustache. “Said Jason–that he–God, it’s so awful.” He glanced over at Ray as they walked through the immense warehouse where all the machines were set up. Fraser looked at everything as they passed. Ray didn’t know what anything was, it all just looked like big machinery that made a lot of noise. 

“Yeah,” Ray said, hands in his coat pockets. “We’re investigating his death. You mind if we ask you some questions?”

“Katelynn said he might have killed himself?” Mike’s eyes were wide, blue and pale. He was middle-aged and wore the calloused hands and tired features of a blue-collar man who’d probably work himself well into retirement.

Ray shrugged and squinted at a worker who was manning a forklift. “We’re investigating all avenues.”

Mike took them around the perimeter of the warehouse. Most of the machines were silent, though there were some seriously big noises coming from the northern end of the place.

“Jeez,” Mike said, shaking his head. “Jason was a good man; real good. Loved his kids, worked like a dog, always reliable. I can’t believe it.”

“Was he working on Tuesday?” Ray asked. “I mean, was he in at all?”

Mike seemed to hesitate, then scratched his head, “Ah, yeah. He worked a full shift. Left around five-thirty? I think?”

“You think?” Ray took out his notebook and scribbled something onto a fresh page.

Mike’s eyes followed the stubby pencil as it skittered over the paper. “I-I can check if he clocked in or out, sure.”

“Mr. Manuel,” Fraser cut in, “What do you manufacture here? What would Mr Hibbert have been in charge of?”

Mike blinked and turned to the Mountie, giving him a curious once-over. “Uh, well, Jason was one of our machine operators; manned themanufacturing of end products mostly.”

“I see,” Fraser looked at the wall they were passing, where great piles of _things_ were wrapped in plastic and stacked on pallets. “So he worked with molten metal?”

Mike frowned, “We all do, yeah. We’re a manufacturing mill.”

“I noticed–” Fraser continued and Ray watched him work, realizing something was up. Fraser paused and looked down at the floor. He then turned a sharp forty-five degree angle and stared down the length of the factory. Ray followed his gaze and saw some guys working what looked like red-hot metal coming out of some kind of machine. Without his glasses, he couldn’t be sure what the machine was making. “You manufacture industrial coils, springs,” Fraser said.

“Yes,” Mike said slowly. He was sweating around his temples. Ray watched him carefully, letting Fraser do his thing. It was probably similar to what others felt when they watched opera. Fraser was good.

“I also noticed, while we waited with Nancy at the front desk, that there were documents pending a signature or two. Documents regarding a workplace safety inspection.”

Mike swallowed, “Yeah, we get a lot of inspections. Goes with the business, you know?”

“Naturally,” Fraser clasped both hands behind his back. “I also noticed,” he murmured, “that this walk you’ve taken us on, is counter-clockwise around the mill.”

“Yeah, can’t really have non-union folks strolling through here, to be honest,” Mike said, sounding very confused. “It’s dangerous.”

“So it is,” Fraser smiled. “Though I wonder if perhaps you chose this route, the long way back around, so we would pass the coil machinery last. The machine directly across from here.” He pointed back at the red-hot metal guys.

Mike frowned, “I don’t follow?”

“Allow me,” Fraser said, then promptly walked down the aisle towards the working men.

“Sir!” Mike ran after him, “Please, you can’t just walk through here. It’s a safety violation! _Sir!”_

Ray followed behind Mike, wondering what crazy thing Fraser was up to. He really hoped it wouldn’t involve Fraser licking the ground again.

When Fraser paused about twenty feet away from the huge hot-metal coiling machine, he crouched down and Ray sighed. “Fraser, don’t–”

But Fraser ignored him and waved a hand over the concrete.“This stain,” he stood up and pointed towards the workers. “It follows a path from _that_ machine.”

Mike was sweating real good now, like a damn oil field. Ray approached Fraser and looked down. “Huh,” he said, seeing the thin, dark streaks, faded from being wiped down. There was indeed a pattern of them, the stretched teardrop shapes that had spattered the ground, originating from one central point. He could see they got larger towards the big machine.

“Burning hot metal springs,” Ray murmured. He could see the machinery now, and the metal tubes that were being wound around a rod. He looked at Fraser. “You think the inspection had something to do with unsafe work practices?”

“Unsafe, perhaps poorly-maintained machinery,” Fraser said with the sureness of a professional safety inspector. He turned back to Mike. “Mr Manuel?”

“Y-yes?” the guy was shaking now and Ray _almost_ felt sorry for him, but he remembered what Mort had said: _an entry wound the size of a fist_ , burned edges, and forensics had said no real evidence of a gunshot, just tiny traces of gunshot residue; like someone tried to fake gunplay near the body, someone very inexperienced.

“Did Mr Hibbert die here, in your very factory, due to an unforeseen accident?” Fraser said slowly.

Mike hesitated, looking between Ray and Fraser, then dropped his baseball cap, quivering all over. He burst into tears. Ray blinked.

_Holy shit._

“It was an accident!” Mike blubbered, hands covering his face now. “Jason wasn’t supposed to be working the mill, but he wanted to get on with a delivery, get some of it done before it was due. I shouldn’t have let him! Oh, _God._ ”

“What happened?” Ray came up to Mike, all business now. “The truth, don’t fuckin’ lie to me or I’ll have your ass.”

The man broke down into sobs and spilled his guts.

Hibbert had been working a perpetually malfunctioning machine. One minute he was coiling hot metal, and the next thing it had fired the molten metal out, too fast, and too hot. The coil hit Hibbert right in the chest, burning through him like some insane molten projectile, throwing him back and killing him instantly. Mike had found his folded over, like he’d been sitting for too long and crumpled into himself.

“Jesus Christ,” Ray muttered, taking notes as fast as he could. It explained the severe lack of blood, the metal would have just seared the guy. Mike was sobbing so hard Ray was sure he’d give himself a panic attack. “But wait,” Ray tapped his stubby pencil against the pad. “If he died here…” his eyes widened and any sympathy he had left for the guy withered up in a second. “You _took his body?”_ he exhaled sharply, angrily.

Mike blubbered some more, falling to his knees. “I’m sorry!” he wailed, “I panicked. We can’t have anymore incidents. This place is barely filling orders as it is! Another failed inspection, another problem and the manufacturing bureau wasn’t gonna let us stay in business!”

Ray was _fuming_. He grabbed the guy by the collar and yanked him to his feet. Mike was covered in tears and snot, and _Christ_ , Ray wanted to punch him.

“So you took his body and dumped it in his own garage so his fucking _wife_ would find it?”

Mike just wailed and nodded like the fucking sad sack he was.

Ray let the man go. “That is sick,” he spat out. “You’re a real piece of work, man.” Fraser was a solid presence beside him, looking none too happy himself at the revelation. Ray unhooked the cuffs he kept tied to the back of his belt. “Mike Manuel, you are under arrest for the, uh, well, maybe not the murder of, but the unlawful removal–” he glanced at Fraser, who nodded, face hard. “–the unlawful removal of a body and concealment of said body. You have the right to remain silent…”

* * *

It’s not like Fraser was his official police partner, not on the books, but it was interesting how folks just assumed that to be true. Technically, he shouldn’t even be bringing the Mountie onto crime scenes at all, but nobody stopped him. Welsh didn’t care, not with Fraser’s closing rate, so that was good. That had been settled long before Ray showed up.

Besides, Fraser was necessary now. He was _required_ because he filled in the gaps in Ray’s brain. He saw stuff Ray missed and he could pull coherent thoughts and ideas from Ray’s rambling babbling when he was on a hunch.

“People are scumbags, Fraser,” he said, glancing both ways down the avenue before crossing. “Fuckin’ trash walking the streets, dumping bodies and not just doin’ the right thing.”

“Very true, Ray,” Fraser murmured.

“I mean,” Ray cried out and looked over at his partner, “The guy didn’t _kill_ Hibbert, you know? He coulda just called it in, but _no._ Unbelievable. And to dump the guy’s body where his wife, hell, maybe his _kids_ could have found it? Jesus.” He scowled and jammed his fists deeper into his pockets.

“People panic and make terrible mistakes,” Fraser said. He sounded tired. Ray couldn’t blame him.

“The paperwork on this is gonna kill me,” Ray grumbled.

“Maybe,” Fraser was watching him again with those eyes, Ray could feel it. 

“What?” Ray looked at him, scowling harder. _“What?”_

Fraser blinked, “Pardon?”

“You’re lookin’ at me like that way you do, when – when, you got something to say.”

“I have nothing to say, Ray,” Fraser said calmly.

Ray’s eyes narrowed. He could tell when people were lying, he’d had that knack for a long time. Fraser was hiding something. “Just say it,” he said sharply.

Fraser blinked, “Say what?”

Ray came to halt and turned to face him. “Whatever it you ain’t saying, Fraser. C’mon, out with it!”

“I don’t have anything at all to say, Ray,” Fraser said, tilting his head. “I was merely listening. Would you prefer me to interject and incur your wrath some more?”

“Oh, my _wrath_ , eh?” Ray shook his head. “You saying I don’t let you speak, now? ‘Cos you know that ain’t true. You talk and talk and _talk_ all the time, why bother keeping your mouth shut now?”

Fraser pursed his lips and clasped his gloved hands together. “Ray, I’m confused. One minute you don’t want my input and now suddenly you’re upset because I’m not speaking, when I actually have nothing to say. Forgive me, but I’m lost.”

Ray swayed on his feet, moving from one foot to the other. “And you don’t get lost, ever.”

“Ray…” Fraser sounded frustrated, which was something Ray was used to hearing in _other_ peoples’ voices, not the Mountie’s. That made him pause. Maybe he was being a jackass. He just felt on edge all the time, what with the dirty dreams and the earnestness Fraser always turned towards him like the surface of the sun bearing down on a bean sprout.

“Jeez,” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Frase. I don’t know what’s up with me. I just feel…I dunno. On edge all the time, you know?”

Fraser considered him for a moment, his eyes clouded with suspicion. “I _don’t_ know, but I commiserate.”

“Well,” Ray shrugged. “You know me, I’m a little dumb.”

Fraser sighed, long and slow. “You are _not–”_

“I’m _joking_ ,” Ray said. “Joking. As my partner, you should know that by now.” He started the walk back to the station. “You know, Fraser, you’re not the first partner I ever got teamed up with.”

“I didn’t assume I was,” Fraser said, matching Ray stride-for-stride.

“I mean, I been around the block. How many schmucks you think I’ve been partnered with, huh?”

Fraser considered this before answering, “Two?”

Ray made a buzzer sound, “ _Ehhh!_ Nope! Wrong again, cowboy.” He looked at Fraser. “Six. _Six_ partners and I’ve only been doing this for a decade and a half. Most guys max out at two.” He waggled his index and middle fingers in the air. “I’m aiming for twelve.”

Fraser frowned, “Six?” He looked skyward, then back at Ray. “That is…”

“A lot, I know,” Ray sighed. “When I was a rookie I got partnered with an old-timer, Aitken. He was a good guy, taught me a lot. But I guess even he couldn’t handle me every day.” He smirked, “He retired early.” He glanced at Fraser. “He retired ‘cos of me, you know? Said I was a bit too much to handle, too cocky, I stressed him out, wore on his arteries. Poor guy. I can’t blame him.”

Fraser jogged up the station steps with him, then got the front door, holding it open for Ray.

“Then I had two female partners, one after the other.” He shook his head. “I think brass thought they’d help. Jones and McAfferty, they were. Great cops, the both of ‘em. My first lieutenant thought they’d mellow me out, offset my bullshit. Apparently not.” He saw the busy crowd waiting for the elevator and made a tight left towards the stairwell door. He held it open for Fraser. 

“They both got booted to other precincts, and then I moved onto the detective track, yadda yadda, crime, crime. Worked a couple good years through that shitshow while trying to maintain my marriage which wasn’t so bad just yet. Then undercover work, which made me a free agent, picking up partners here and there, like some fly paper or somethin’.”

Ray skipped up the last couple stairs so he could grab the door before Fraser. “Get in,” he sighed and Fraser nodded. They made their way back to the bullpen. “And then the shit started hitting the fan with Stella and I was outta partners, in my marriage _and_ at work. The brass was so done with me, Frase. And now I’m here, borrowing some other guy’s partner until he gets back, because they can’t find me one that can tolerate my bullshit and not want to kill me.”

Ray wandered through the desks, back to his designated corner. His desk was still a mess, two empty styrofoam cups sitting on top of a stack of folders. He picked them up and threw them in the trash before slumping into his seat, legs splayed.

Fraser came to a halt and just stood there watching him.

“So, I ain’t surprised I’m annoying, Fraser,” Ray said, hands up. “I been annoying since the day I popped outta the womb. Can’t stop, won’t stop. C'mon, babe, you know it's true.”

Fraser blinked at him a few times. “I don’t find you annoying,” he said, pulling his usual chair closer and taking his hat off. He sat down. He rolled his hat between his fingers, elbows resting on his knees. “Frustrating, perhaps, confusing sometimes…” here he sort of trailed off, getting lost in his own head.

Ray watched him for a moment. He took in the way a curl of dark hair had escaped from its usual combed-back position. He watched the way Fraser’s dark lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks every time he blinked. Fraser was a lot of angles: jaw, neck, shoulders, nose. But he was also made of a lot of rounded, softer shapes. His lips curled at the ends, giving the appearance of a small smile at all times. Ray had seen it hard at work even when Fraser was upset or angry. Fraser had a few quirks that Ray could read. He would lick his bottom lip when he was thinking, and he’d scratch his eyebrow with his thumb when he was nervous. He’d avert his eyes when he wanted to flee, like when Frannie would come onto him and he definitely used parade rest to keep his anxiety in check, stop his body from betraying him.

Right now, he looked distracted. Had Diefenbaker been in the station and not at the consulate, Ray would bet he’d have started whining right about now, concerned about Fraser’s behaviour.

“You okay?” Ray leaned forward, mirroring Fraser’s pose.

The Mountie blinked at him and Ray would swear on his mother’s life that there was something new there in the depths of those eyes.

Fraser sat upright. “I’m fine, Ray,” He said, then got to his feet. “I’m supposed to work tonight. So perhaps we can meet tomorrow morning to go over next steps on the case?”

Ray peered up at him. The Mountie was fuckin’ lying again. _What a bastard._

“Yeah, fine,” Ray said and sat back, staring up at Fraser. He didn’t like this, not one bit. “Hey, actually, what time you finish toy soldier duty tonight?”

“Hm?” Fraser dusted imaginary lint off his coat.

“Fraser,” Ray growled, and that got the Mountie’s attention. “What _time?”_

“Oh, well,” and was Fraser _blushing?_ Ray narrowed his eyes further. Shit, was he _busy_? Was Fraser going out to do something without Ray? 

Ray swallowed and nodded, waving his hand.“Nevermind,” he said, angry at the weird tightness in his throat. Fraser was allowed to have a life. Ray wasn’t the most important person on earth. “Go do what you gotta, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“All right then,” Fraser nodded and flipped his stupid hat back onto his head. “Tomorrow, then.”

Ray watched him turn and stride out of the bullpen, nodding hello to whoever made eye contact with him, like the complete dork that he was.

Ray remained slack, laid back in his chair, chewing on his thoughts.

“You gonna do any work at all today?” Frannie said, dropping a folder on his desk. She raised a brow at him. 

Ray scowled up at her. “How ‘bout you mind your business?” he retorted eloquently.

Frannie rolled her eyes, “Whatever you say, _bro,”_ and walked off with her stack of folders.

* * *

By the time he was done filling out forms and signing away evidence, it was past ten PM and Ray was exhausted. He rubbed at his eyes and wrote down one more note on the autopsy report that he and Fraser could elaborate on in the morning.

Most of the night crew were in, Huey and Dewey long gone. Welsh was in his office, still yammering loudly on the phone to some poor sap who’d taken a misstep in the wrong direction.

Ray got to his feet and slipped his coat on. He shook out his shoulders, feeling the stiffness in his neck from being bent over his desk all day. He was done. The rest of this case could wait until he was mentally able.

Once on the dark street, he pulled out his car keys, jangling them loudly as he walked. Today had been productive, at least. Maybe too productive. He’d distracted himself long enough to pull his mind off Fraser and his absence. _Fraser_. On a _date._ It was absurd. Preposterous, even.

“Stupid idea,” he mumbled, scowling into the night. He dodged a couple teenagers and crossed the street to get to the GTO. Fraser could absolutely nab a woman, like, in an instant. He didn’t have Ray’s bad luck of striking out nine times out of ten. Ray was pretty shit at getting women’s numbers, he was too obvious about it, too open. Fraser was the opposite, probably, surrendering questions and info at the drop of a hat, but remaining tightly closed off and separate. They were two different sides of the same coin. 

Maybe Fraser was out doing something he didn’t want to tell Ray about, fine. Maybe that’s why he’d been so damn nice all day. Maybe he felt guilty or something, didn’t know how to tell Ray he wasn’t the apple of Fraser’s eye or some shit. Ray rubbed his jaw and winced at the absurdity of it all. This must be what thirteen year-old girls felt like when they tried to play it cool while they crushed on dumb jocks out of their league. God knows Ray’s teenage years had been non-stop pining and hormones and dirty thoughts and stress and –

“Evening, Ray.”

“Jesus _Christ!”_ Ray leapt back, stunned to find a figure leaning against his car in the dark. “Fraser! What the ever-lovin’ _fuck_ is the matter with you? I’m a cop! I got a gun! You can’t be jumpin’ out like that and givin’ me heart attacks!” He rubbed at his chest, heart beating loudly in his ears.

Fraser wasn’t in his uniform, choosing instead to wear his navy pea coat over jeans and hiking boots. It was almost jarring, seeing him in casual clothes. He made a face at Ray and smiled. He had _such_ a great smile, it made Ray’s stomach thud into his knees. “My apologies, I only meant to catch you before you left.”

“You ever heard of a phone?”

Fraser nodded, “Ah. Right.”

“Honest to God, Fraser,” Ray batted his hands, shooing Fraser away from the car. “I could have shot you in the face or I could have had a cardiac infection or somethin’.”

“Infarction,” Fraser murmured.

“Don’t be gross,” Ray said.

“No,” Fraser rolled his eyes skyward, “Cardiac _Infarction_ , not infec–oh, nevermind.”

Ray shrugged and twirled his keys around his index finger. Fraser watched him unlock the car. Ray paused and turned to him, only now realizing Fraser was here, with him, and not _elsewhere._ “I thought you were busy tonight?”

“Well, that depends,” Fraser murmured, and, _dangit,_ his eyes twinkled so nicely under the streetlight. “I was hoping we could order in Chinese and watch the Senators beat the Hawks.”

Ray frowned, “You mean watch the Hawks murder the Senators?”

“I don’t see that outcome on the books,” Fraser tilted his head and smiled with his teeth this time, which really made Ray’s stupid heart skip a beat. Was he, in fact, a teenager all over again?

“Fine,” Ray opened the car door. “Chinese and hockey. Whatever, Fraser.”

The Mountie just smiled and walked around the car, keeping his mouth shut until he clambered into the passenger seat.

* * *

Ray dug around for the delivery menus. God, they were here somewhere…oh! “Fraser, what do you want?” he yelled, glaring at the many folded pamphlets from local joints jammed into the kitchen drawer.

“I wouldn’t mind some fried rice, Ray,” Fraser responded from the living room. He’d already shucked his coat, and hung it up in the front closet like the perfect guest he was.

“I can do that,” Ray nodded, finally locating the correct pamphlet. “That’s the stuff,” he grinned, then spun around looking for the phone. He bounced between the fridge and the cabinets wishing, not for the first time, that he had a bigger kitchen. He wasn’t much of a cook, so he didn’t need the room, but the way he kept managing to lose his crap in such a small space left him frustrated.

“C’mere, you hunk of junk,” the phone had fallen off the wall again and gotten stuck between the fridge and the cabinet. He was gonna have to find time to nail or duct tape it up.

While the phone rang, he turned to lean through the kitchen archway. Fraser was seated on the sofa. He was flicking through the tv channels, completely at home in Ray’s space. His broad shoulders filled out a plain white t-shirt nicely. Ray chewed his lip.

“Hi, you have reached Linn Bistro,” the phone said suddenly in his ear.

“Hey yeah–” Ray began but was cut off almost immediately.

“–please hold.”

He deflated. The broken tones of some off-key music filtered down the phone line. He bobbed his head and walked in a slow, tight circle, the phone cord curling around him. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, drumming his free hand on his belly. He was _starving._ An early start and a long day could do that to a guy.

He turned back to the archway. He leaned out. Fraser was still sitting there, watching the TV, back to the kitchen.

Ray rubbed his chin, feeling his new growth of fuzz coming in, as a scratchysaxophone remake of a Phil Collins song crooned in his ear. Fraser was here, with him, and not out somewhere with some girl. He frowned and turned on his heel, tapping his hand against his hip now. What had Fraser meant about meeting in the morning, though? Was this an impromptu visit, or was he trying to make up for Ray’s temper tantrum earlier in the evening?

The music jangled loud in his head. Ray was unsettled by Fraser’s quietness. “Frase?” he said loudly.

Fraser looked up and over his shoulder. “Yes, Ray?”

“You, uh,” Ray winced when the phone cord pinched at his neck skin. “You want a coke or somethin’?”

“No thank you,” Fraser smiled, “water will be fine.”

Fraser turned back to flip through the channels.

Ray was about to ask what time the game started when the restaurant receptionist’s voice came back on the line. “Hello, Linn Bistro, May speaking. Are you ordering delivery or pick-up?”

“Uh, hi, I’m–”

“If you’re ordering delivery, there will be an extra three dollar fee. If you order pick-up, you will receive a complimentary Fanta.”

“Ah, okay, I’ll be do–” again, he was cut off.

“Due to the current hour and the fact it is a Friday, we are already quite busy, so your wait time for delivery will be about forty to fifty minutes, is that okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ray pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, already annoyed as hell by this transaction. He just wanted food!

“Your number, please,” the woman said.

“555-3659,” Ray snapped off. “Vecchio. I’ve ordered before. And I’ll be paying cash.”

“Please hold,” the woman said sweetly and the buzzy music came back online.

“ _Really,_ lady? _Put me on hold?_ C’mon! _”_ Ray yelled. He flailed his arms in frustration and stumbled, realizing he’d wrapped his whole torso in the very long and twisted phone cord.

“Fuck,” he hissed, twirling himself slowly, fingers plucking at the coiled mess. He shook his head and scowled at the fridge. The Phil Collins rip-off had mutated into some reggae-electro-mix.

Goddamn this was annoying. “Fraser, food’s gonna take some time!” he yelled.

“All right,” Fraser answered. He didn’t seem too bothered, but then again, nothing ever seemed to bother Fraser.

Ray started humming along to the stupid music. He tapped his fingers against the fridge, lost in thought. Maybe Fraser was waiting to talk about something. Maybe he wanted to address Ray’s bad behaviour. Maybe he was coming over to say he’d been reassigned, was moving back to the Yukon or wherever. Maybe–

The restaurant woman’s voice came back on the line, derailing his thoughts. “Mr. Vecchio, thank you for waiting. What would you like to order?”

“Uh, what? Oh, hey, yeah,” he rubbed his fingers through his hair vigorously. “Uh, Can I get the large seafood fried rice, the, uh, the eighty-nine and, uh, _shit,_ hold on,” he grabbed at the restaurant pamphlet, then swore when it fell to the floor. “Hold on a sec, sorry,” he grumbled, crouching down to grab at it. He flipped through the pamphlet again, annoyed that he’d already forgotten his order because Fraser– “Oh yeah, yeah, the sixty-seven, the thirty-two, um, a fifty-nine, and a side of the chicken–no, make that the _vegetable_ spring rolls. And that free Fanta.”

“The complimentary Fanta is for pick-up orders only,” she said pleasantly. Ray was buzzing, his brain trying to connect the dots, trying to draw lines between things he couldn’t see. _Fraser was here with a purpose, had to be._

“Ah, shit, okay, nevermind the Fanta. I hate Fanta anyway. Disgusting orange fizz.” He could hear her ringing up the order on her cash register while he bounced on his heels, unfocused and thinking wild thoughts.

“All right, your total is twenty-seven fifty, will you be paying cash or credit?”

“Cash,” Ray said a little too fast, too loud, leaning his shoulder into the archway. The pale yellow paint was terrible.

“Okay, so your order should arrive within the hour,” she said then read the order back to him before confirming his address. “All right, Mr. Vecchio, your food is on its way.”

“Thanks, May,” Ray said, proud that he remembered her name in a momentary flash of brilliance. “Bye!” See, he _was_ learning!He hung up the phone and watched it fall off the wall hook and crash to the floor again. _Ah, shit._

 _“Fraser!_ ” Ray barked and exited the kitchen. He yelped loudly when he came face-to-face with the Mountie leaning against the wall. “Jesus! Fuck!” he jumped back.

Fraser smiled. He had both arms crossed, all casual-like.

“You complete asshole!” Ray barked, flushing to the roots of his hair. “You really do wanna scare me to death huh? How’d you get here so quietly?”

Fraser watched him, eyes careful, perhaps even calculating.

Ray was breathing hard, trying to rein in his surprise. Why was Fraser looking at him like that? “What?” he said, anger still present in his tone. “I got ketchup on my face?”

Fraser’s gaze swept over him from his hair all the way down to his dirty boots. Then his eyes made their way back up until they met Ray’s.

Ray swallowed.

Fraser pushed off from the wall.

“Food’s on it’s way, I suppose?” he said gently.

Ray was a little spooked. “Uh, yeah,” he said.

Fraser stepped forward, getting in Ray’s personal space. He blinked, and smiled.

“Fraser, what the hell?” Ray asked. He felt all hot under the collar. Fraser _should not_ be making faces like that. At least, not in public.

“You know, Ray,” Fraser murmured. “I spent all day considering how to say this.”

“Say what?” Ray frowned and edged his way around the other man.

Fraser cleared his throat. “It began that first time you wore my hat.”

Ray shrugged off his own jacket, finding it the perfect excuse to avoid Fraser’s gaze. He went to the closet and pulled out a hanger. “What about your dumb hat?” He then unclipped his holster, checked the safety on his gun and set the weapon down on the shelf where he’d thrown his keys. He hung up the jacket and holster, then shut the closet. He picked up his gun and walked past Fraser.

“Well,” Fraser followed him through the small apartment to Ray’s bedroom, where he slid the gun into his one bedside drawer. “A man’s hat is as important as his boots, you know.”

Ray bent to unlace his boots, kicked them into a corner and got to his feet. He turned and shooed Fraser out the bedroom.

Fraser backed away, walking slowly, eyes on Ray. How he managed to not walk into the door frame was fascinating but not worth investigating at this juncture.

“So I wore your hat, so what?” Ray frowned.

Fraser tilted his head. He wasn’t wearing his hat, something Ray should have noticed but hadn’t. Had he even brought it? Fraser followed Ray back to the living room where the sports announcer barked stats at the camera. “Well you wore my hat, then referred to it as my baby, and then when I disagreed, somewhat obliquely, you inferred that _you_ , in fact, were my baby.”

“Yeah, and?” Ray bent over to pick up a slew of used mugs he’d left on the coffee table. _Jesus, he was such a slob._ He carried them back to the kitchen and dumped the lot in the sink. He turned and found Fraser blocking the archway.

“And you have, since then, referred to yourself as–” Fraser cleared his throat, “–my _baby_ , no less than eight times since.” He held up a finger. “Once, when you took the coffee Francesca had accidentally purchased for me, her not knowing I prefer tea. Another time you said that I, quote, ‘couldn’t blame you for being an uncontrollable idiot because babies are like that’, and then there was that time you held up a candy bar and _laughed_ because it had your apparent nickname on it?” He sounded confused. “Ray, I’m very much sinking in a pool of consternation here. I have been for a while. Like an iced over lake that is warming in the spring, I'm up to my knees.”

“A Baby Ruth,” Ray said, sighing loudly.

Fraser blinked.

“That candy bar,” Ray waved a hand in the air, “It was a Baby Ruth. It’s funny.”

“Oh,” Fraser stared at him. “Yes, well, be that as it may–”

“Oh, come on, Fraser, don’t read into it too much. You know me, my brain don’t talk right. Synapses firing all which-way.” He tried to squeeze past the Mountie but Fraser put up both elbows and pressed them to the archway walls. Ray’s heart thudded loud beneath his ribs.

He looked into Fraser’s deep blue eyes.

“I don’t think I’m ‘reading into’ anything,” Fraser said calmly. “I think you were saying something. Suggesting something, even.”

Ray licked his lips, absolutely lost, but also, predictably, a whole lot turned on by whatever this was. Fraser _never_ behaved this way.

“So I said you could call me ‘baby’, what of it?” Ray shrugged. He knew he sounded like an idiot. He’d been joking mostly, when the word had first come up. He’d just leapt on an opportunity to embarrass his partner, and so what if the thought of Fraser calling him ‘baby’ was also a bit of a turn-on? He wasn’t hurting anybody. “It’s a Chicago thing, _babe.”_

There was something that glinted in Fraser’s eyes and Ray swore he could feel it vibrating off the guy.

“Ray,” Fraser said slowly, advancing forward. Ray stepped back. “I’d like it if you were frank with me. Perhaps even honest, for once.”

Ray licked his lips again. He had no idea what this was, but it was _good._ He didn’t think Fraser had it in him to play this kind of game. Maybe Ray was reading too much here, but his gut was usually right on the money. “Are you _flirting_?” he murmured, voice catching in his throat a little. “Is this you flirting, Fraser?”

Fraser paused, considered his next words, then smiled. “I’m not sure. Would that be unwelcome?”

Ray faltered when his back hit the far wall of the tiny kitchen. “I mean… probably not?” That was as close as he’d get to admitting anything. His chest felt two times too small for his wildly beating heart. God, if Fraser ever turned _this_ onto an unsuspecting woman, she’d probably explode into glitter.

“Probably not,” Fraser echoed him. His eyes fell to Ray’s lips. “Then would it be incorrect to assume you might welcome my… interest?”

Through the really dumb, stupid, unsexy words, Ray felt his heart flutter in that horrible, man-crush kinda way. He felt weak for no reason, like the first time Stella had held his hand in public. Jesus Christ he really was a fourteen year-old girl.

“Jesus, Fraser,” Ray gasped, “Just do it already.”

Fraser’s eyebrows rose higher and he smiled. He leaned into Ray’s space before cupping both hands on either side of Ray’s cheeks. _Jesus_ , no one had held him like that in _forever._

“This feels like prom night, or something,” Ray couldn’t help joking awkwardly, but was cut off when Fraser pressed his lips against Ray’s.

_Holy fuck._

This was _somethin’ else_. Ray kissed back, perhaps a little forcefully, but could you blame him? Fraser pressed him against the wall and Ray growled, feeling a heavier-than-usual body leaning into him, crushing him against the lemon yellow wall.

Fraser’s tongue made an appearance and Ray opened his mouth in welcome. Fraser kissed like he was made to do it, all tongue and teeth and lips, and _oh God._

Ray loved necking. He hadn’t expected Fraser to be any good, not even in his dirty dreams, but _dang_ , the guy was gentle and forceful and responsive all at once.

Fraser sucked on Ray’s tongue and nipped at his lower lip. It was fucking great!

Ray finally got his hands into Fraser’s hair and was rewarded with _soft_ but thick locks in which to tangle his fingers. Fraser liked that, judging by the skip in his breathing when Ray gave a slight _tug_.

Fraser pressed his whole body against Ray and it felt magnificent. Usually it was Ray who was twenty-plus pounds heavier than whoever he was kissing, so being on the other end of this dynamic was really thrilling. Fraser could definitely hold him down and fuck his brains out and Ray wouldn’t have a moment to complain because his brain just _buzzed_ at the thought.

Fraser’s fingers tugged at Ray’s t-shirt, pulling it free of his jeans.

“Oh, hey,” Ray said when two hands pushed under and pressed against his skin.

Fraser pulled back. His hands stilled.

Ray grinned, “I didn’t say _stop_. Just, you know, saying hi.”

Fraser’s hair was all mussed and falling over his forehead, which was, _well,_ very nice. “I’m afraid it’s been a while since I’ve–”

“Yeah, same,” Ray chuckled, amused at their similar situations. “Tell me about it.”

“Ray,” Fraser frowned and pulled his hands away, “Is this–”

“Fraser, I swear to God,” Ray gritted out and yanked Fraser in closer by his hair. Fraser’s eyes went dark and his mouth fell open. “If there’s no follow-through here, then I’m gonna be so pissed. You can’t kiss a guy and leave him hanging.”

Fraser took a moment to find his words. “Yes, Ray,” he said softly. “I wasn’t sure.”

“Well, let me be clear,” Ray licked into Fraser’s mouth, all lewd and dirty like the asshole he was. “I am definitely down for this. If you are.” Fraser actually glanced at the clock above Ray’s head, which made Ray scowl. “What?”

“Our dinner will be here in, what, forty, fifty minutes?” Fraser said.

Ray smiled all slow. “Yeah.”

Fraser leaned in to kiss his neck and Ray shivered, almost taken aback by the gentleness. “Then why waste time?” Fraser murmured into his skin. “Bedroom?”

Ray pushed at Fraser, then kicked off from the wall. “Holy fuck, yes, let’s go, Fraser! C’mon, go, go, _go_.”

* * *

“Oh Jesus,” Ray panted, staring down his body. He watched Fraser pull his jeans and boxers down all in one go. “I’ve had so many filthy fuckin’ dreams about this.”

Fraser threw his clothing aside and looked at Ray. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Ray flushed. _Okay, get embarrassed now, Kowalski,_ he thought irately. “I–yeah.”

Fraser scooted backwards off the bed. He pulled his t-shirt off and Ray’s mouth watered at the sight. Guess he really was into guys just as much as girls. He’d been pretty sure of it for a while, but now he was certain. He rolled off the bed and came round, wanting to undress Fraser himself.

“Let me,” he growled, and yanked at Fraser’s belt. The Mountie’s eyebrows rose in amusement and he watched Ray wrestle with his jeans and then his absolutely terrible laced hiking boots.

Ray finally got the pants and boots off, with much swearing, and was then confronted by the plain white underwear.

“You are _such_ a boy scout,” Ray laughed, and rubbed his hand over the obvious bulge in the tighty-whities.

Fraser flushed red all down his chest, which was very endearing in a way Ray had _not_ expected.

“Utilitarian briefs make a lot of sense, Ray,” Fraser said, breath catching when Ray pushed the fabric down and away. “I can bulk order them right from Sears and–”

“Fascinating, Fraser,” Ray said, distracted by the swathes of skin now bared to him. He pressed both hands to Fraser’s chest and then down his belly. Fraser, in turn, got a good grip on Ray’s sides, right under his ribs. Jesus, Fraser had big hands. Stella had small, soft little palms and long-nailed fingers. Fraser’s felt like slabs of meat.

It sent a thrill down Ray’s spine when he looked down and saw the way Fraser was chubbing up. Like Fraser wanted to be here, wanted to be with _him._

“Hi there,” Ray said, grinning. He reached and gave Fraser’s cock a gentle tug.

Fraser inhaled sharply.

“Looks like it’s working,” Ray snorted.

“Am I going to regret this, Ray?” Fraser sighed.

Ray grabbed Fraser’s arm, twisted, and threw him onto the bed. He clambered over him and perched himself on Fraser’s belly, his own cock already leaking at the tip. He grinned down at Fraser, cocky and sure. “Probably, I dunno.”

Fraser arched up and caught Ray’s mouth with his, his hands going to Ray’s back, holding him close. Ray could feel Fraser’s cock rubbing against his ass and his own dick twitched painfully with excitement.

They kissed like frenzied teenagers, all hands and lips and shifting hips.

“Fuck,” Ray gasped, pulling back for air. “You sonuvabitch, how dare you be good at that.” He panted and swiped at his own hair, which felt sweaty and a complete mess. “How much time we got?”

“Thirty-two minutes,” Fraser said.

“Okay,” Ray pushed him back down to the bed. “That gives me some time to try something out,” and he winked before slinking his way down Fraser’s body. “Gotta scratch every square on this bingo card, if you know what I mean.”

Fraser’s eyes grew wider and wider until he gasped and let his head fall back, Ray’s head now between his hips.

* * *

Adrian knocked on the door for the third time, a littler harder. He could hear sounds of someone banging around inside, muttering curses. He looked at his watch. He had two more deliveries on this block and this guy was taking _forever._

The door finally flew open, revealing a blonde guy in a pair of sweatpants. He looked really angry, or maybe really high. Adrian couldn’t tell. His hair was a fucking _mess_. Adrian wasn’t one to judge, but _man_. The guy was wearing a t-shirt that was way too big for him and it was starched stiff. Who the hell starched their t-shirts?

“Vecchio?” Adrian said warily.

“Yeah,” the guy said. He held up a finger, then disappeared for a second, made a bunch of noise, then reappeared with a wad of cash. “Here you go,” he said like a man who was pretending to be calm when really he'd recently decapitated a body and the evidence was just out of sight.

Adrian traded the bags of food for the money. He quickly counted it. There was a lot more than he expected. “You, uh, want change?” he asked, half hoping for the guy to be too buzzed to say yes.

The guy frowned, “Yeah, of course. I just handed over forty-plus bucks, pal. What do I look like?”

“Ray,” a different voice came from somewhere inside the apartment. Another man appeared behind the blonde. He gently pulled the Ray guy back and away from Adrian. “Go plate the food.” The blonde dude grumbled and wandered back inside.

This guy looked a lot more coherent, though his sweatpants seemed a little snug. He smiled, “Sorry for that. Yes, if we could please have ten dollars in change and the rest is your tip.”

“Uh, sure,” Adrian grumbled, figuring, hey, that wasn’t too bad. Some people were hella cheap.

He fished in his fanny pack of shame and dug out the correct amount. He handed it over and the man smiled. _Huh, handsome dude._

“Thank you kindly,” the man said and Adrian nodded, backing away. “You have yourself a lovely evening,” the man continued. Adrian walked a little faster, back to the elevator. He wasn't sure which of the two dudes was creepier, the probable meth-head or the eerily nice freak.

He heard the door shut behind him and then exhaled. “Fuckin’ late night customers,” he shrugged. “I have _got_ to get a better gig than this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I appreciate it. :)


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